


Imitation Is The Sincerest Form Of Flattery

by ToiletPaperPrincess



Series: Miscellaneous Fics [19]
Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Anime)
Genre: Fluff, Humor, Misunderstandings, Other, but you can read it as “Mimey’s thirsty ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) ” if you wanna I’m not the boss of you, my intention was “Mimey wants to express friendly affection but that gets kinda weird for Delia”
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-10-05 14:27:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20490365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToiletPaperPrincess/pseuds/ToiletPaperPrincess
Summary: Mimey just wants to show his human friend that he likes her.  But human customs can be SO confusing…





	Imitation Is The Sincerest Form Of Flattery

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies if any of this is OOC or blatantly contradicts canon, but faced with the concept of “A-am I really gonna rewatch an episode of Pokémon just so I can write a Mimey/Mom fic??” I apparently decided the most embarrassing part of that was “rewatch an episode of Pokémon,” so I didn’t :’D
> 
> Like it says in the tags, my intention was that Mimey’s motivated purely by affection and not lust (or any kind of sexual interest/excitement), it’s just that he doesn’t understand the typical human context of certain behaviors. But like it says in the tags, I’m not about to kinkshame anyone, so read it however you want.

Living with a human had its benefits. Shelter from rival Pokémon, for one thing. Tastier and more plentiful food, for another.

But the best thing of all was the companionship. The presence, friendly dialogue, and affectionate touches of another being.

And Mimey could _not_ figure out how that worked.

Friend (she had many names—“Delia,” “Mrs. Ketchum,” “Mom,”—but “Friend” seemed to suit her best) touched him a lot. She would rub the top of his head, touch his cheek, pat his shoulder, grasp his hand, gather him in her arms for a hug, and even, on occasion, press her mouth to his forehead. She did all this freely and without hesitation, and Mimey didn’t mind. That was great. Mimey liked that.

It was more difficult to touch _her_, though. Among themselves, Mr. Mimes greeted each other with a hearty slap. The first time he’d tried that, her cry of pain had been unmistakable, and luckily his panicked dancing and blubbering and gesturing had calmed her and assured her he’d meant no harm. Well, Mimey considered, _that_ didn’t work. So he tried again, a lighter slap, on a part of her body that seemed fairly well-cushioned. That spot above her legs in the back had seemed ideal. When she squeaked and slapped his hand, he thought he’d been successful. It took a few more tries and (for Delia, an extremely awkward) visit with Professor Oak to establish that, for humans, a slap did not communicate affection.

Humans were much more different than he’d thought. And far more complicated.

Mimey tried to learn by copying. That’s what he was most suited for, and that’s how she taught him to clean house. He’d watched her move the bushy stick across the floor and push the filth into a corner where it could be gathered up and hidden in a bag. When he’d repeated the movements exactly, her mouth had pulled into a happy shape and she’d slapped her hands together to make an appreciative noise. That was easy. He did it right and she liked it.

Friend was much taller than Mimey. Unless she bent down, the closest things she could reach were his head, shoulder and arms, and she patted them. Unless she bent down, the closest things _he_ could reach were her thighs, stomach, and spots in between, and patting them was apparently a bad move.

When Friend took Mimey in her arms, sometimes the way she pulled him in would press his face against the cushioned area between her arms. But when he wrapped his arms around her, if his face touched that area she would push him back and scold him. This was utterly confusing.

“I’m sorry,” she would sigh heavily sometimes, rubbing the top of his head, and by now he recognized the words and not just the remorseful sound in her voice. “You don’t understand, do you? It’s not your fault.”

“Mime,” he mumbled quietly.

He wanted Friend to be happy. He didn’t want to cause her distress.

But giving her affection only by sweeping the bushy stick across the ground...only by dragging a damp square of fabric across the surfaces of other objects...only by following pantomimed instructions and waiting desperately to be touched...

That was so, so lonely.

\---

Sometimes Friend liked to sit on the long lumpy sitting log (“couch”) and watch the flashing picture box (“TV” or “my soaps”). Mimey understood _that_ perfectly. That was like one of his performances, but with a whole troupe of different mimes. The actual content of the stories went straight over his head, but he appreciated the way the humans used their faces and bodies to tell them.

His favorites were the ones that made Friend laugh, where humans spoke in loud, silly voices and flailed their limbs all about and fell over dramatically. Tonight, it was one of the ones that made Friend cry (“in a good way,” she’d assured him the first few times). The humans didn’t move around so much and mostly just stared at each other and turned away from each other and sometimes mushed their mouths together in between. It was still pretty fascinating, just not as relatable. But Friend seemed to like them.

It was one of the mouth-mushing scenes. Humans must enjoy doing that kind of thing.

Mimey had just started to wonder if that was related to Friend putting her mouth on his forehead when suddenly the boy human placed his hand on the cushioned area between the girl human’s arms.

Mimey gasped with shock, and turned to face Friend.

Her eyes were shining. She had her hands clasped together, her face was red...and she was letting out a long, dreamy sigh.

Mimey _stared_.

He stared, and stared, and stared so long that the mouth-mushing scene was over and the TV humans were already lying in the sleeping area together as they often did after mouth-mushing. Then at last Friend turned to face him, appearing surprised.

“Huh?” she asked, hands unclasping. “Is something wrong?”

Mimey pointed to himself, then to Friend, pantomimed the cushion-touching, and expressed distress. Then he pointed with both hands to the TV (it was already showing different humans in a different location), pantomimed the cushion-touching, pointed to Friend, and mirrored her expression and sigh.

Then, indignantly baffled, he stared again.

“Oh...?” It took Friend a moment to understand. “_Oh!_”

She laughed in that way that meant “I’m sorry” or “I’m in distress but I’m pretending that it’s okay” (humans’ tendency to do that instead of being bluntly and _simply_ straightforward was a source of endless confusion for him). “You want to know why I’m not upset about that?” she clarified, and Mimey responded in her language with a nod. “Well, that...that’s _different_. You see? Um...well...they _love_ each other.”

Mimey reeled back, his hand over his heart. He felt like he’d been slapped (in the bad way).

It must have shown on his face, because now Friend was panicked, waving her arms around and letting her voice climb higher in pitch. “Oh, no no _no_, I didn’t mean—! I mean, well, of _course_ I love you, dear, it’s just—it’s—_you know—_”

Friend made a vague gesture with her hands. For all her good points, she was _terrible_ at miming.

Mimey shook his head vigorously.

He _didn’t_ know.

He..._wanted_ to know.

Humans and Mimes were different, of course. But if the companionship between him and Friend was so different from that of the humans they saw on TV, why, then, did those humans _also_ wrap their arms around each other? Why did they touch each others’ heads and arms and hands? Why did they press their mouths against each others’ faces? Why—

“L-listen,” Friend was trying, putting her hands on Mimey’s shoulders, “you and I—”

Mimey put his hands on her shoulders too.

Then he smashed his mouth to hers.

It was not what Delia would describe as a “kiss.” Mimey didn’t think hard enough about the TV humans or the forehead smooch at first, and just nuzzled his closed mouth against Friend’s (slightly open, mid-gasp).

Friend’s grip around his shoulders tightened, implying that he had done something wrong. So he drew back, and _then_ he thought, and just as Friend drew in enough breath to speak he crashed back in with lips puckered.

The noise Friend made was not of anger or fear, but of surprise.

Mimey held on.

Her grip on his shoulders slackened.

He adjusted his arms around her back and hugged her tighter.

He had not paid particular attention to any of the TV mouth-mushing, so it was not an exact reenactment. But he held her close and pressed his mouth to hers, over and over, nuzzling more gently as Friend’s sighs grew quieter and quieter.

At last with a gasp Friend pulled away, startling Mimey. Hadn’t her reactions indicated he was doing it right?? Now her face was red and she was breathing heavily, escalating his fear. Had he hurt her? He scooted frantically away on the couch, blubbering incoherently, waving his hands. Was she angry? Was this a new kind of anger? He’d let her punish him if he deserved it—

But Friend just stared at him, blinking, as her breathing slowly calmed.

“M-mime...?” he whimpered.

That seemed to snap her out of it. Friend shivered, shook her head, then turned away and stared into the distance (Mimey turned too, but couldn’t tell what she was looking at), pulling fidgety hands through her hair.

“Whew,” she sighed, laughing again in that “I’m feeling something else but I’m pretending that it’s okay” way. “I, um. I guess it _has_ been a while, hasn’t it...? Ha ha. Um. W-_well_.”

She rose from the couch, leaned over and thrust out her hand. Mimey flinched but stood his ground.

Friend gently patted his cheek.

“That’s enough TV for tonight, okay?” She let out another laugh, still red, never looking directly at him. Wobbly legs took her out of the room. “I’m g-going to bed. Good night.”

Mimey put a hand to his cheek as he watched her go.

The intention—the gentleness made it _very_ clear—of Friend’s gesture had been affectionate.

Gentle as it was, though...the motion itself...had been a _slap_.

Mimey’s mouth spread in a delighted smile.

He had expressed his feelings according to her customs, and she had expressed hers according to his. At long last, he’d done it right, and they both understood.

He finally knew the right thing to do to make his beloved friend happy.

So he remained on the sitting log a while longer, paying close attention when humans mouth-mushed on TV, taking copious mental notes.

But when Friend awoke to find him lying in bed beside her, she screamed, and alas Mimey was back at square one.


End file.
